


Black Rain, White Night

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes they like to sit and talk, and sometimes silence speaks louder than words.</p><p>A short drabble attempting to capture the friendship Choe Gu-Song and Shougo have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Rain, White Night

It's the city that he really takes after, you think as you sip your drink. Ice clinks against the glass - real crystal; a rarity in this day and age - and settles half in and half out of the alcohol as you set the container down on the table, lean back in your chair, and watch him turn a new page in his book. His fingers handle the paper with a loving care, caressing the sheet as his hand moves down the page and settles at the base of the book's spine. You would never see that sort of affection in anyone except a pair of lovers. Soft and sweet and subtle. The lighting is kept low for mood, so he reads by the luminescence of a candle burning steadily over his shoulder. It must be a strain on his eyes; but then, you know he's not really reading. He has long since memorised that book's contents.  
  
Outside, the rain sheets against holo-panes and seeps across saturated pavement. It's dark but for the occasional flash of colour. So stark, yet starker still are the clothes he wears. Pure white, pure cotton - _real_ fabric that you can touch and smell and not just see. Here is genuineness personified, not just in looks but in manner: an aloofness that carries him above the pedestrian yet does not ask for veneration. You seek to drink in every aspect of his appearance, taking him in like how the drains swallow the filth of the city.  
  
And he _is_ filthy - a corruption masked by the aesthetic of his visual form. The longer you listen to the words he drips into your ear, the deeper you sink into the taint, and the more you worship him.  
  
What lies at the heart of his being that he can move you so?  
  
A sigh. He shuts his book gently, looks up, and smiles.  
  
That smile is a douse of cold water hauling you back to the present. For once it touches his eyes, as it does when he has taken particular pleasure in his reading. The rest of the time they are as inscrutable as the lights outside, assessing your worth and weighing your actions. Cold like metal, cold like pale, untarnished gold.  
  
You think they're beautiful.  
  
Swallowing more of the alcohol as he speaks, he asks a question phrased in thinly-veiled reference to his vast library of knowledge. You respond in kind and he laughs, a sound so at odds with the composure he showed earlier - and so rare, coming from him - that you have to stop and listen and savour. He's pleased and in much better humour now, tossing you a fond glance as he stands to replace the book on its shelf.  
  
It isn't just his presence you're attracted to. It's his intelligence, insight, beliefs, and wit. It's the nights you spend alone with him, in his home, sometimes quiet in contemplation, sometimes lively in discussion. You'll speak of anything with him: from computer science to obscure texts, the merits of true food to the differing palates offered by wine. But always - always - between the two of you, and no-one else. You don't think it's wrong to covet him, any more than he thinks it wrong to help this city open its eyes to its own complacency. He has told you that, once, he walked down the main street carrying his bloodied razor, and all he received was a single stare.  
  
These thoughts distract from noticing that he's by your shoulder; you tilt your head up questioningly when he touches your arm and he descends to one knee beside your chair, gold dimmed by torrential rain and semi-darkness, like a white tiger crouched amongst forest leaves.  
  
Stay here tonight, he says, the rain wasn't going to let up for hours yet.  
  
You glance at your laptop, an innocuous square, grey shadow on the low table in front of you. You'd checked the weather forecast not an hour ago, but you nod and set the empty glass down. Condensation frosts its surface a moment after you remove your hand.  
  
Just for tonight, you respond.


End file.
